


the aphrodisiac powers of gastropods

by Shallott



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, FACT, M/M, Rimming, although the geography is pretty legit, escargot are delicious and nothing can stop me, the nearest emergency room from Summerdale Camp Grounds is Madera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shallott/pseuds/Shallott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the great and lovely Marishna who got me for the Teen Wolf Holidays fic swap thing exchange whatever~ and requested "Stiles finds out the guy he's been dating, or fucking, is a werewolf". </p><p>I added a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the aphrodisiac powers of gastropods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marishna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marishna/gifts).



"Don't panic," his dad says, not looking up from his paperwork. "It's a date. People go on them sometimes."  

Stiles shakes his hands and continues pacing. "Yeah, yeah okay. People date. I am people. I can do this." 

"You can do this," his dad yawns into a cup of coffee. "You know what else people do? They don't ask their dads for tips on icebreakers. You moved out for a reason, son."  

"Thanks, Dad," Stiles says, double knotting his shoes. You never know. You really never know.  

"Have fun." His dad ruffles his hair and shoves him at the door. 

Stiles isn't exactly sure how he gets out of the house, locks the door, and makes it to the car, but when he blinks again he's standing outside the restaurant, handing the valet his keys. He walks in, letting his eyes adjust to the low lighting, and straightens his blazer. It itches and he regrets Lydia.  

"Uh, hi," he manages to the hostess, who smiles reassuringly. It doesn't help. "I have a reservation for two, Stilinski?"  

She scans down the list, circles something, and gives him an approving onceover. "Sure, right this way." She leads him to a table smack in the middle of the restaurant, which he now notices, is full of couples. Christ.  

The waiter materializes all of five seconds after he sits down. "Water," he demands and fills Stiles's glass before he can ask for something stronger, like a martini or a brick to the head.  

There's a basket of breadsticks in the center of the table and Stiles forces himself to take one, rip off a piece, and chew not unlike a cow eating its last meal.  He twists in his seat to see if Matt has arrived yet and catches the hostess watching him with a pitying smile.  

"Whatever," he mutters, stuffing another piece in his mouth. He can wait. No big deal.  

 

Thirty eight minutes, two baskets of breadsticks, and four water refills by the Termiwaiter later, his phone buzzes. _Hey something came up but maybe we could try again some time?_  

Well fuck him.  

The waiter somehow Apparates to the table again and Stiles almost falls out of his chair. "If you're not going to order something, you need to leave."  

"Fine, what the hell should I get," Stiles snaps, shoving the menu at the guy, thoroughly done with this day and this shit and this date and this fucking menace with a carafe. The waiter looks deeply irritated and absolves him of the right to bear menus. "The escargot are good. You should try them."  

"That's disgusting," Stiles says, flapping his napkin into his lap. "Can I get two, please?" 

  

Snails are actually disgustingly tasty, once you get past the whole _snails_ thing. The restaurant has quieted down considerably by the time the first order of escargot arrive and by the time Stiles works up the nerve to unearth one of the tiny, butter-soaked lump, it's pretty much just him and the remaining waitstaff hanging around.  

"Oh my god," he moans, mouth half full of mollusk. There's a fumble of plates behind him and when he turns, the waiter stares at him like he's an alien.  

"This is delicious, like _criminally_ delicious. Why the hell aren't snails a part of the American diet? Have those French assholes been hiding this shit from us?"  

"Glad you like it," the waiter says, hovering like he's ready to flee a crime scene. Stiles waves a napkin at him. "Dude, I can't finish this on my own, do you want some?"  

The waiter looks around the empty restaurant, skipping over the no longer smiling hostess aggressively texting between sending looks of deepest loathing at Stiles. "Okay."  

"I'm Stiles," he says, all but shoveling snails into his face. 

The waiter seems to twitch from the inside. "Derek."  

They eat in silence for all of five minutes until Stiles leans forward, probably getting some snail juice on the front of his blazer, Lydia be damned. "You wanna get out of here?"  

Derek chews meticulously, either blatantly stalling or savoring the shit out of those slimy nuggets of culinary orgasms. "Are you seriously propositioning me after getting stood up?" and Stiles winces, shrugging with what he hopes is casual indifference.  

"It was a blind date, I wasn't really expecting much." 

"Yes you were," Derek says, unwilling to let the lie go by gracefully. "You looked like there was a bomb strapped to you." 

"There had been some build up, okay, shoot me for being excited," he huffs, spearing the last snail and chewing like it wronged his mother. Derek's eyebrows give away no emotion.  

"Fine, forget I mentioned it." He tries to make a decent getaway, smashes his knee against the table leg, and has to limp to the hostess to pay, Derek watching him the whole way.  

The valet is bringing his car over when there's a hand on his elbow and Stiles nearly pepper sprays Derek on reflex. "I didn't say no," Derek says quietly and Stiles' mouth falls open, suddenly dry and absolutely _reeking_ of snails. The headlights blind him for a second and he blinks at Derek, whose eyebrows are raised in completely unnecessary judgement.  

"Shut your goddamn face," Stiles says and corrals him into the car. 

  

Derek, for all his silent eyebrow communication and looming presence, blows Stiles like a champ, all but unhinging his jaw to fit every inch of Stiles until his nose rests softly in his happy trail, scraping the juts of his hipbones with sharp nails. When Derek swirls his tongue around the head of his dick, Stiles arches off the bed, Derek rising with him to swallow it all down.  

"God," he breathes out hard, pleasurably jelly-boned and noodley.  

"Not quite," Derek says and before Stiles can really stare at him disbelievingly, Derek kisses the surprise off his face. 

  

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles shouts, scrambling to open all the kitchen windows as the smoke alarm screeches deafeningly. Derek emerges blearily from his bedroom with a pair of Stiles' sweatpants and bedhead. He looks like an escaped yeti.  

"Why," he croaks and Stiles tamps down the urge to fuck him on the spot.  

"I wanted to—I tried making pancakes?" he offers, lifting the pan to show three completely black circles of goop. Derek turns the stove off, pulls Stiles back into bed for another hour of aggressive spooning in the dark, and takes him to brunch. 

  

"You disgust me," Lydia says when they get lunch, not two days after what turned into a weekend of marathon sex with intermissions for food. "You still smell like sex. I can feel the orgasms wafting off you."  

"Thanks," Stiles says, snatching a fry.  

"There's nothing wrong with Stiles getting laid," Scott says like a loyal bulldog. "But seriously dude, stop it, you're freaking me out." 

"Are you guys dating now?" Lydia asks. Stiles stares at her. 

"We had a sex marathon and he bought me breakfast. There would be no way any relationship could be better than that memory."  

"That's why you should've gotten his number," Scott argues until Stiles steals his fries and Scott throws an open packet of ranch in his face.

  

Derek texts him the next day for coffee and actually pays attention when Stiles starts to bitch about macchiatos, keeps the table stable when his gestures threaten to send cups flying. Derek kisses him goodbye like a hopeful question, eyes wide and open, and it's sweeter than Stiles expected, so as a thank you he crowds Derek against the side of his car until they're in danger of being arrested for public indecency.

  

This establishes a, what Lydia calls worrisome and Stiles calls _fucking awesome,_ trend for their interactions, as he thinks of them, firmly skirting the word _date_ like a dangerous snake. They go the planetarium and Derek gives him the most torturous handjob as Stiles drives home and tries not to hit anything; Derek makes risotto and Stiles rims him in the shower until he cries, feather light touches with his tongue and doesn't use his fingers until Derek is already coming hard against the tile.  

"That's pretty much dating," Scott says to be an asshole after Stiles beheads him gloriously in CoD. "It sounds a lot like my dates with Allison."  

"TMI, dude," Stiles says as his phone buzzes. Derek wants to know if he left a belt at Stiles' apartment and without looking, he knows it's behind the headboard.  

Shit. "I'm dating Derek," he informs Scott.  

He should probably tell Derek. _We're dating right?_ he types, rather than explaining a damn thing.  

 _Obviously?_ Derek shoots back, and Stiles calls him a dick when he finishes high fiving Scott in varied and creative ways.

  

Dating Derek, it turns out, is a lot of like hanging out and fucking Derek, but with more nights ending in cuddling and a sudden explosion of black shirts on his bedroom floor. It's only irritating since he can't fit into any of the shirts, but they work pretty well for going to the gym and sleeping.  

Actually it's also irritating that Derek expresses zero interest in meeting any of his friends. He seem perfectly content to stay with Stiles at one of their apartments for hours, probably days if Stiles let him. But if Derek has those feelings, he doesn't share them. They don't do a lot of feelings, actually, and it's giving Lydia a worry wrinkle.

So he doesn't get to see Scott as much—it's not what he wants, but after spending ten years all but living with the McCalls and four years of actually living with Scott for college, they can probably spend some time apart. Scott gives him space, doesn't make too many jokes about Derek's reclusive tendencies, and still invites him out camping in Yosemite for Memorial weekend.

Except Derek reminds him of their six month anniversary—Stiles mocks him for remembering for a solid ten minutes—and as much as Stiles loves Scott, he isn't going to have filthy, bendy sex with Scott after a three course meal. Scott promises him repeatedly it's fine as long as Stiles stops texting him about his sex life. 

"What are you smiling about?" Derek asks, biting his ear affectionately.  

Christ, he didn't even realize it. "It's my party, I can smile if I want to." 

"That reference makes no sense in this context," Derek starts before Stiles rolls him onto his back.  

 

Stiles took it as a sign of Scott being the all around best that he doesn't call until past midnight, until. Derek was no longer actively challenging Stiles' refractory period and had settled for dragging his nails over every inch of bare skin. "I thought you said you didn't want details about—"  

"Is this Stiles?" interrupts a freaked out voice, most definitely not Scott. Stiles sits up, sliding out of Derek's arms.  

"Where's Scott?"  

"We're going to the hospital, he's okay, we got attacked by some animal a wolf or a mountain lion, I don't know, he lost a lot of blood but they said he was going to be okay."  

"Jesus Christ," Stiles says, reaching for his pants. Derek pulls on his shirt backwards, grabs the keys off the dresser, and takes the phone from Stiles' shaking hands. "What hospital," he demands sharply, writes down all the information and a number on the back of a receipt. Stiles closes his eyes and lets Derek guide him gently to the car, stares out the window until the sign for Madera whizzes by.  

Derek walks into the ER waiting room like he's storming the trenches. "I'm here to see Scott McCall," he says, absolutely calm.  

The nurse runs a finger down a clipboard so slowly Stiles wants to scream. "Family only. You are?"  

"His brother," Derek says before Stiles can think up a good cover.  

The nurse smiles at him. "I can see the resemblance. He's on the sixth floor, room 931."  

"You didn't have to do that," Stiles says as they set off for the elevators. "I could have come on my own." 

Derek looks incredulous. "I wanted to come." 

He's not sure what to do with that so he lets it hang in the silence of the elevator. The doors open and Stiles sprints down the hallway, Derek right behind him.  

When they hurtle through the door, Stiles skids to a stop and Derek barrels into his back like an avalanche. Scott's lying in bed, playing poker with a curly haired guy in a sweater. "Stiles!" he says, shifting to get up until Stiles punches him in the chest and hugs him until his shoulders hurt.  

"You _dick_ , I thought you were actually dying," he says, glaring at the sweater guy, who has the decency to look sheepish.  

"Sorry, I was kind of freaking out. I get, um, faint at the sight of blood." Derek snorts behind him and Stiles' heart kicks up a little faster affectionately.  

"Whatever," Derek says, stepping around him and going right up to Scott's bed. "I need to know what attacked you in the woods." Scott looks at the curly guy and then somewhere over Derek's head.  

"No idea, it was like a wolverine or a coyote, probably."

"Really?" Derek says pleasantly. "Where'd it get you? On the left side?" Scott nods emphatically and Derek puts a palm on his ribs, presses down hard. Scott doesn't make a sound, just sort of moves around in discomfort, and the curly guy sighs deeply.  

"Oh, shit," Scott says.  

"I need to know what attacked you in the woods," Derek repeats slowly and Stiles can't see his face but it must be terrifying because Scott almost leaps out of bed.  

"A wolf," he says quietly. "A really big wolf."  

Derek breathes hard out his nose. "Stiles, I need to talk to Scott for a minute." He looks back at him. "Alone." 

"What the fuck, no," Stiles says but Scott looks at him sadly. "Stiles, Isaac, could you just give us a second? Please?" 

 

"What the fuck is going on in there?" Stiles says for the fifth time. Isaac stretches out on the bench and shrugs. "Don't worry about it, Scott's fine." 

Is he, Stiles thinks, and opens the door before he can stop himself. "—find an anchor," Derek's saying before jerking around to glare at Stiles. "I said I needed to talk to Scott!"  

"Yeah, you had your minute. Are you going to tell me that the fuck is going on?" He glares at Scott. "I thought you lost a lot of blood, right? Where's the mark?" He rips back the blanket and Scott's torso is bare and smooth, completely unmarked, before Derek smacks it back down. 

"Stiles, you need to let me talk to Scott," Derek says, low and decisive.  

"No, you need to talk to me because this is not making any fucking sense," he snaps back.  

"Stiles, come on—" Scott starts, but Derek holds up a hand.  

"You wanna know what we're talking about?" Derek says, rolling his shoulders. "Fine," he says—growls—and suddenly there's a lot more claws and sideburns and glowing red eyes.

  

"I—" Stiles gets out, and bolts. He only has five minutes to stare dumbly at a door in the men's restroom before Derek barges in and walks straight into the stall with him.  

"I'm sorry," Derek says and actually looks contrite. It's weird.  

"For what?" Stiles laughs shakily. "Some people have underbites, some people have gap teeth, some people have fangs, you know, different strokes for different folks." 

Derek actually smiles a little at that but makes no move to come any closer. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you from the beginning, I just—I didn't know if I could trust you."  

"But you trust me now?" Stiles says, trying not to collapse onto the toilet. 

"Of course I do," Derek says with a disturbing lack of hesitation. "I love you." 

"Oh," Stiles says, dimly aware they'd been coming towards this for a while now, albeit probably not in a hospital restroom at five in the morning. But Derek's already walking out of the stall, pushing the door open. 

Stiles tackles him to the floor, or he would if he was capable of felling Derek with brute strength. "What the fuck?" he demands, sort of hugging Derek around the waist.  

"Look, most people aren't okay with it, it's o—" he steels his voice back to calm. "I'll be okay, Stiles, seriously."  

What the ever loving fuck am I going to do with this shit, Stiles thinks, and shoves Derek to the floor to sit on his stomach. "I love you, dumbass."

Derek's face grumps adorably and Stiles cups his face in his hands, bends to kiss him. "We should really talk about this," Derek groans as Stiles bites his neck.

"Great," Stiles breathes into his skin. "Can't wait."


End file.
